The Violin Teacher
by Lunita Lunera
Summary: Remus Lupin, as a Muggle, tutors one Hermione Granger, a brilliant young musician with a promising career. Alternate universe, slightly allegorical, NOT a romance. Fun to write, hope it's as nice to read!
1. Remus

**Disclaimer:** Remus Lupin and Hermione Granger belong to Joanne Kathleen Rowling, and in writing this it isn't my intention to steal what her genius is responsible for. :)

**A/N**: This story was set into motion by my brother, who intuited that Remus Lupin, if a Muggle, would be a violin teacher. The story unfolded itself after that, and I wrote it in pieces over four consecutive midnights, so I apologize in advance if it isn't the most coherent piece.

"He" is Remus and "she" is Hermione. Everything will hopefully come together in the next part. :)

* * *

Cities like these are the crossroads of humanity. Every morning, when Apollo's lantern is lifted from behind the curtain of stars in the East, Fortune orchestrates its elaborate play, drawing together just as many people as Diversity can lend him.

As the sky diffuses with a rosy tint, the established gentry are already trickling out of their town houses and mingling in a swarm of guests and wanderers. They are the aged and the callow, the aimless, the decided, the righteous and the corrupt. Not everyone has a purpose, not everyone has a destination, but everyone has a life and with and of it a story. All are shrouded in anonymity, unidentifiable in the sea of faces. Here, Propriety encounters Bad Taste daily and never knows his name.

He came to the city after twilight, with his wallet in his coat-pocket, a small suitcase containing a few days' changes of clothes in one hand, and his violin case gripped in the other. Fair Luna was glowing from somewhere behind the tall buildings and he stepped between short, silver shadows as he looked for the address of his boarding house.

He was a stranger here and he arrived under cover of night, when most of the city was slumbering and he could not offend them by turning up in the revealing light of day. Sunlight was for the reputable, and his reputation had always been tarnished. He hoped that here it would pass unnoticed.

Some choose to dwell in darkness, where their ink-stained hearts and underworld cloaks are camouflage; he was cast out into shadow by society, condemned for being what he could not help. He was unlike his contemporaries, faulted for what was no sin, no stain to defile his soul. But a deaf ear was turned towards his pleas for understanding.

Seldom did the upright have occasion to chance upon the scum that make their homes in sewers. He was exiled from the drawing rooms of the principled but too decent to sit in the gutter with the lawless. Nobody ever guessed that a demoralizing environment was a greater punishment to him than any. He tried to make the best of it always, for never was there another as high-minded and patiently enduring as he. Sometimes it took everything that was in him to not crumble; he wanted to lash out at the injustice, break free from the fetters of ignorance and willful intolerance.

But the world had doled out its inequitable provisions, and what prerogatives he was denied were supplemented liberally with hardship. He knew how take the thrashings of fate like a gentleman and how to carry himself with dignity. He always walked with his head held high; he clung to the scraps of his dignity because dignity was the one birthright that they could not conspire to steal from him.

* * *

Three days after his arrival, an ad had appeared in the classifieds column of the Sunday Times:

**Violin Lessons** with Certified Teacher  
Academy of Music trained  
Will compromise rates

For two weeks he had scarcely stepped outside, lest he missed a call or caller. That first fortnight yielded five interested customers, only three of whom followed through. But three students were better than none, and their tuition enabled him to secure another ad, and then another. He had survived the biggest hurtle and his students were accumulating. Life was always a struggle, according to his philosophy, and it was, after all, a blessing if you could make your way doing what pleased you.

He lived in the attic of an ancient boarding-house, cut into the side of the block somewhere along the Grand Avenue, sandwiched between an office complex and a shopping centre. The tottery, soot-stained structure boasted of four floors and twenty rooms, comfortably furnished and reasonably priced. The attic was let for a trifling sum, and cramped and neglected as it was, he counted himself lucky to have secured a home in the respectable part of town. Here at least he could gaze out the window and watch the tides of people ebb and flow beneath him.

He kept to himself mainly, so as not to arouse suspicion. He had made the mistake in the past of involving himself too conspicuously in the public. He knew that the surest way to avoid disclosure was to avoid outside ties altogether. With his students, he was validating and kind, with their parents, professional. His comings and goings, kept carefully unobtrusive, were disregarded. On the whole this state of affairs was preferable to being judged. If there was hunger in his heart to do something more creditable, he never let his frustration evince itself in a depression of spirit.

He was voiceless in the media, where great minds had already used their pens and cameras and implements of creativity for character assassination against his kind. He was an artist at his core, but in the artisan circles his sort were belittled, despised for their condition; in their galleries they were mocked as fools on display, and any work of his would be considered farce.

Besides that, paints and charcoal, typewriters and film, were an extravagance his budget could not accommodate. Wherever his reputation preceded him, he was unwelcome. So he kept inside and played his violin. And his music carried through his open window, and, unseen, he serenaded the city.

The notes were his tears, his passion, his inspiration-- lyrical and contemplative, lilting, lilting, mingling with the breeze and stealing their way into homes where the maestro was shunned…

He would have told a person that he was content-- he told himself so every morning. Solitude suited him better than scrutiny, and compromise --sacrifice-- was elemental in survival. Time had unveiled tragedy and made him learn to live when life was shattered. He had learnt to bandage where he bled and smile because he was alive.

He had learnt to live off of hope, because for years it was all the nourishment he could afford. He _was_ satisfied when occupied and being unhappy never crossed his mind. But there were always moments of quiet where he would contemplate the lost, the present, the inaccessible…

He may have thought himself happy, but his music sang of melancholy. He always wrote by moonlight, in that haunted hour where his thoughts would stray to the past. The soft silver light was lonely to him, introspective. It was the pale light of truth, and under it his soul was bared, with all its beauty and all its sadness.

* * *

She came from the school district on the other side of town. She had heard a whisper say of a phantom violinist whose music was heavenly and wise, as though his instrument was strung with angels' hair. She was a student of music, and wanted very much to learn.

One night, strolling leisurely down the Avenue, she heard it. That haunting melody—new to her ears but unmistakable—stole over her and held her captive. For a few blissful minutes she floated, spirit-like, in a world only superficially physical. This was transcendence, where deep and unexpected wells of emotion were opened up and her soul soared in the dawn of profundity.

When the last lingering note quivered on the air, she stood still rapt and excited, and scanned the upper windows for any sight of her newfound idol. She saw the scroll of a violin peeking just above the highest windowsill of the boarding house. She saw a thoughtful face propped against a slender wrist; a poetic apparition, at once alert and languid, watching the crowd.

She made an inquiry the next day. "You must mean Mr. Lupin, the violin instructor!" said the woman at the receptionist's desk, and directed the visitor to the top floor. Up a rickety flight of stairs that creaked alarmingly loud, to a door made of mahogany with a tarnished brass knob. Her tentative knock was answered by a tall man with a careworn face and a patient smile. She represented the purport of her visit and was invited in to explain herself.

It was a well kept room, she thought; a touch too warm to be comfortable, but a feeling of snugness suggested itself, thanks to an apparent effort to make it so. The unsightly storage corner, where rusty nails protruded jaggedly from the rough boards, was hidden behind a great quantity of moth-eaten scarlet drapery, which, shining in the fragmented golden light, lent the room a warm reddish hue. The same fabric had been employed as tablecloth, curtains, and a throw for the sofa; and though in places the cloth was lacy with age, its edges were all carefully hemmed and it was spotlessly clean and fragrant.

She seated herself on the sofa, and saw that one of its blond pillows had been patched, but holding it, found that it was soft, as though years of use had made it so. Humble as it was, the whole arrangement was conducive to comfort and contentment. His deference put her quite at ease and she ploughed through her tale without a trace of her usual discomfiture. At the end of the interview, he asked gently whether she would play with him, that he might have an entire view of the case. A spare violin was produced from the classroom corner and respectfully offered.

He rose, drew out his violin, and indicated she do the same; slowly, he started up the refrain of an old Stephen Foster tune. A musician herself, she appreciated the easy transition between notes and changes, fingers flitting along the fingerboard as effortlessly as a lark in flight. His bow glided fluidly against the strings, as though it was an extension of him, painting a smooth and wistful melody in the air, for his touch was sure and the notes resonant.

Tentatively at first, she rested the smooth body of the instrument against her shoulder, feeling up and down the strings for a moment. Her bow was poised and her fingers ready, but she hesitated; he smiled at her and inclined his head slightly, and she felt encouraged. A second strain filled the air, harmonizing beautifully with his. She closed her eyes and her confidence returned to her; the teacher bowed out and observed her as she played.

There was much to be wanted in terms of technique, but there was something in her style that excited the listener. She was blessed with an innate playing acuity, her manner was unpolished, youthful, invigorating. Little tricks and nuances hinted at a greater genius; there was so much_feeling_ in her music that, when she finished, both stood in mutual respect for the other.

She lowered the instrument self-consciously and laid it carefully on its stand, nervously awaiting his answer. He regarded her with shady blue eyes, head tilted slightly, turning the case over in his mind, for she was older than any others he taught, and much further advanced, and in his humility he doubted whether he could be of any help to her.

But he thought it would be pleasant to try.

* * *

**A/N II**: Thanks for reading, and pretty please leave a comment to tell me what you thought. I'm particularly interested in hearing your feedback because this is a huge departure for me, and I'd love to know how I can improve it. Thanks so much. 


	2. Hermione

**Author's Notes:**

I want to apologize for taking so very long to update. This chapter gave me no end of trouble, as I think I totally lost my direction and all inspiration with it. It's only a stubborn resistance to leaving something unfinished that induces me to update at all. Please just take the rest of the story for what it's worth, paltry as the effort is. :)

* * *

The girl had raw talent, and no person who heard her ever doubted it. To the untrained ear, her playing was magic; she plied her bow with such passion and dexterity that it dazzled most into believing there could be no fault in her music. 

To the trained professional she was a rising star of promise. Patrons of the art looked upon her with kind indulgence and a touch of grasping interest, for here was a young woman upon whom Fate had smiled benignly. She would soon come to her own, and whosoever had some claim to her success would share in her prestige.

It was Lupin who would influence her most, little though either knew it at the time. Lessons started the very day he made her acquaintance, and in the following months he was privileged with the hearing of her innermost musical voice. When she was with him she was unguarded, for perhaps she felt that there was no selfish ambition in his desire to help her. She gave him a glimpse of her soul, and in it he recognized a shadow of his old dream.

Hermione wanted nothing more than to win the respect of the world. Early on, he saw her thirst to prove herself in her furious pursuit for perfection. It forged a connection between them; he understood her always afterwards. It was true that they came from different spheres entirely - but it mattered none. For this was the same ambition that had driven him through all his younger days.

Lupin saw also how she was self-conscious about her deficiencies and admired the focus with which she strove to overcome them. She saw so much to admire in others, she said, that she felt insignificant and insecure among them. And so he determined to try to ease her into finesse - gradually, if he could, teach her to blend form and intuition until it came as naturally as the very desire to play.

It was summer when her tutelage commenced. Her method, then, was suchlike to the pomp and blare of the red September sky - resplendent and untamed, yet with the quiet haziness of an unsure talent. The feelings beaming forth from her center were golden, gleaming - but she would stifle her strength to conform to subjective standards of perfection. In those long, balmy afternoons, Lupin taught her first to let those carefully bridled emotions amble free.

In tranquil autumn, she implored him to help her improve in a more practical field. Her fingering, her strokes - she knew how to do it, but she wanted to know how it was _really_ done. So as the days grew shorter and the nights frosted over, he taught her how use technique to sustain the passion now glowing inside of her, just as kindling is used at the hearth to sustain a flame.

Hermione was a most diligent student, and practiced hours alone with as much focus as she did when she was under scrutiny. By the time the New Year bounded in with its glistening snow-white vanguard, gracefulness abounded where awkwardness had once tormented her.

She was exultant and let her newfound intelligence consume her perspective. Lupin's emerging concern was that Hermione would begin to lose sight of the artistry that had once been her finest capability. In her conquest over technical imperfections, she failed to appreciate the especial charm of heartfelt and heart-driven delivery.

She was all polish and precision - she dazzled like the snow on the ground, reflecting back the sunlike glory of all the celebrated players whom she revered - but underneath she was frozen. Lupin regretted the change.

And so, as the gentle dawn of springtime woke the hibernating peoples from their stupor, he challenged her to broaden her repertoire and write her own music. In composition, he hoped, she could let her spirit soar in such a way that was impossible when she was playing pieces of other men's genius.

It was a beautiful time for such creative undertakings; that April was remembered for its bountiful harvest of petals and birds nests. May was uncommonly gentle with its feathery foliage and rainbows of uncommon luster.

Hermione was never one to disappoint - she set herself to her task valorously and for one tiring evening beleaguered him for advice. She then withdrew, curtaining herself from the world for a period to better focus on what lived in her. When she returned, she came with a proud smile and a new-begotten song; a fresh melody and entirely her own. And she poured herself into the playing with all the same ardor that she had first impressed him with.

And so, quietly, on one of the first lazy afternoons of summer, her first solo concert was played. It seemed as though her talent was all abloom, and the moment was right to set her free.

* * *

To Hermione, her music lessons doubled as a study of human experience. She liked to observe Mr. Lupin as they practiced. Not for any dubious purposes - she was only curious about his state because it was so out of the ordinary. 

She liked to note the smallest aspects of his life alongside the bigger ones - like what thrifty methods he employed to conserve his resources, or what trinkets, seemingly out of place, he kept on display: what souvenirs of his past were important enough to be held on to. Without realizing it, Lupin made himself a very interesting muse.

There was a single skylight carved into the slanted rooftop panel. The stratospheric condominium across from him eclipsed the morning light and obstructed his view of the sky. But when the western light flooded the backside of Grand Avenue, he could sit in the faded velvet armchair kept below the casement and soak in the gentle rays.

When the afternoon faded into evening, this same window afforded him a fine view of the night sky. From his bed he could watch for hours for shooting stars, and the moonlight pooled about his headboard and illuminated the little nightstand he kept. There was always a book there, and beside it a photograph. Four smiling faces, confident and carefree; a moment of the past that was painful to remember, but too precious to be forgotten.

Hermione was a perceptive girl, sensitive to emotion and quick to pick up on little things. One look at the crepe-draped frame and she read the story of friendship and loss that lurked just behind the young face of her tutor. A diploma, kept well-dusted and hung above the mirror, was a reminder of achievement, of worth. A photograph box engraved with someone else's initials, filled with rolls of negatives dating some twenty years prior; an album of sketches, depicting the ragged and the hopeful - a flower in a gutter, a child singing in confinement. Relics of a personal cataclysm and illustrations of a beautiful, appreciative nature.

He was lonely and she saw it. He had been born into a world still capable of icy discrimination, and some early tragedy had deprived him of what friends he had found in it. But instead of languishing alone in the cellars - and attics - that were grudgingly given, he found the glimmers of light in the proverbial darkness. He lived from candle to candle and found vent for every other moment through his instrument. Hermione felt alike to him because she poured out her ineffable emotions with music, too.

She would never forget the controversy that surrounded her decision to tutor under him. Family and friends made protest - cautioned her not to mix with the cast-off and diseased. She wondered why they could not just let her alone; it was uncomfortable enough without all their fuss.

When she had broached the subject to Lupin, there was a flicker of something like doubt in his eyes - not insecurity, but a shadow of uncertainty - and a barely perceptible change in demeanor. The magnified weight of their talk was electric, and she reeled under the importance of it and fumbled with her words. Lupin was businesslike and had already begun to detach. But Hermione was already too invested to let misconception turn her head.

Hermione understood him and did not get scared away. "It's just prejudice, isn't it?" she would say, and settle herself a little more decidedly in her seat. He was a good teacher, after all, and it would be evidence only of evil in her own heart to perpetuate any calumnies against him.

He was grateful for this show of compassion, all the more because it came from someone so made for beauty and light, so unfit for the shadow that was constantly about him.

Yet gratefully as he acknowledged her kindness, he had learned never to rely too much on the understanding of outsiders. It was unfair to her trap her with expectations and weigh her down with his dependence. He never thanked her without indicating that she was free. She functioned under no obligation to him - emotional or otherwise.

He left the door open for her but she never stepped towards it.


	3. Conversation

"Cup of tea, Miss Granger? You've earned yourself a drink."

Hermione lowered herself into the armchair and accepted a cup with thanks. Chamomile, thickened with clover honey, was mellow and sweet and calmed her into near-perfect serenity. These teatime conversations with Mr. Lupin were among her simplest pleasures.

"I cannot believe how much trouble the sautillé gave me last month."

"You have it mastered now, though, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, I feel like I'm finally beginning to conquer it."

Hermione spoke with great earnestness as she turned the matter over in her mind.

"It won't bother me anymore because I have the key to get the better of it. Just like every other problem," she added, with a frustrated gouge at the butter. She smiled a little ludicrously when she looked up and found him more amused than sympathetic.

"But you'll always figure it out," said Lupin, laughingly. "Remember that, and don't be bothered."

"But I _am_ bothered when I can't get it right."

Lupin stirred a stream of cream into his cup, smiling at her persistence. Hermione reminded him of a child, sometimes, in the way she took up ideas and adhered to them. She could be stubborn like a cat, seemingly immovable, and only the most credible coaxes could bring her round. 

"Music isn't all about rules, Hermione. It's as personal and varied as any other art form. There are things that must be learned, of course, but really it's about learning to make the instrument work for you. Trying for perfection has also to be about expressing yourself or else all the joy is sucked out of the pursuit of it. Don't get trapped in technicalities."

Hermione nodded and sipped her tea, unsure of what to say. Their philosophies corresponded for the most part, but despite his emphasis on emotional release, she couldn't completely discard her own conviction that you could only truly express yourself once you had the proficiency to do so without any handicap.

"I saw that you were highlighted in the Arts Bulletin this morning; you impressed a lot of people last night. I'm sorry I had to miss it."

Hermione smiled, glowing at the compliment and in the reflective thrill of yesterday's success. "The director of the Vienna State Opera was in the audience; he asked me after the show if I would kindly make an appearance there if I'm ever in the area."

"Really? I'm so proud of you, Hermione!"

She fingered with the dripping honey twirler, nervous in her modesty. "It was very flattering of him to say."

"I should say," he said, with enthusiasm enough to compensate for the understatement. "And are you going to oblige him or not?"

She sighed and sank deeper into the chair, thinking drowsily of the future and the bittersweet tidings she had to impart. The draft from the front window rippled the waves of her hair, comfortably cool against her face after her hot drink. There was a perpetual breeze in Lupin's workplace that was to Hermione like a current of ideas: Constantly moving, always fresh. In the winter, when the roaring furnaces were loaded with coal and the rising heat became near unbearable in the unventilated flat, he would throw open the window for a bit of relief. In the summer, when the splintery boards would swell in the humidity and the sun burned down against the rooftop, curtains were brushed aside and the glass lifted to let the sweet-smelling zephyr mingle with the stale air.

It was always that way with him, she reflected, quietly improvising, never complaining. She suspected a deeper story behind the cheerful long-suffering, wondered what cataclysm had forged his gentle strength. But she never invited confidences. Professionalism and politeness were ruling forces stronger than curiosity for her. Between them existed an unspoken understanding, for they were alike in their respect for the immaterial but indispensable laws of social relations; Lupin, indeed, upheld niceties that most in better circumstances had abandoned. 

She looked back at him and began slowly, "One of my friends from Austria has invited me to Vienna for a stay. She's renting a two-bedroom suite and we can economize by splitting expenses."

"It is a great opportunity," he said. "Vienna is a beautiful city for a young musician."

"I'm seriously considering it; but I'm loath to leave here before..."

Hermione paused in thought; before what? With every week that passed, the more her excuses seemed contrived. Each day enfeebled her protestations, and she wasn't sure that her last excuse would impress upon her teacher.

"If it comes to that, Hermione, there is something I ought to tell you."

Lupin set down his cup and saucer and she did the same; he regarded her over a spray of lupine blossoms in their chipped vase, and there was something in his eyes that told her that whatever he had to say was important. Involuntarily she held her breath, and heard only the faint pitter-patter of her heart in the silence.

"I don't think there is anything more I can teach you."

A strange emotion rose up inside of her; a jolt of excitement, an upsurge of pride - oh, unspeakable pride and happiness like a wave. Possibilities rose up to the skies and stretched across the horizon; doubts vanished and dreams were validated. With his expression of confidence she was empowered, felt free to take the world.

But there was a gall in her elixir in the form of self-doubt. Sometimes a tremor would quiver her heart, and she felt small and exposed in the spotlight, thrown out into the world as she was, lavished with gratuitous opportunity. She wanted desperately to prove herself but the idea of sailing forth without a compass was terrifying.

So much was believed of her that she could never believe herself. 

"But Sir, I-- I still have so much to learn."

"I believe that, here on out, you're meant to learn on your own." Lupin's voice was mild, his tone measured and calm.

"I don't understand."

"There's a point in every education, I think, when the fundamentals are established and the mind becomes self-driven. A teacher can guide, but the progress is little due to their instruction. Your understanding is complete and you'll be better served by venturing out and finding your own experience."

It was like the moment when the musty red velvet curtains were first drawn and she faced her first audience, overwhelmed by the layered sea of faces, trembling before the collective stare of thousands, and burning with nervous anticipation. She never needed a hand to hold so intensely as when she was being handed off into the world.

Was it cowardly of her to quiver and want to take a step back, want to sequester herself for a moment longer until she was sure that she was ready? Everyone plays the role of debutant at some point in their duration, qualified or not, whether they have a plan or they have nothing. Hadn't she resolved to meet her moment with fortitude and with whatever confidence she could muster? Hadn't this man, sitting before her, done as much, with so much less?

"If you don't mind my asking, Sir," ventured Hermione, tentatively. "Where did you find your inspiration?" It was easier to deflect just then.

"I don't know if I went looking for life experience as much as life handed it to me -"

"On a silver platter?"

"Something like that," he said, with a nod. "Though perhaps I'd say something more alloyed than silver."

Hermione grinned, understanding that this was all the answer she would get. A minute later, she added, "So is this my last lesson, Sir?"

"Not if you don't want it to be; but what capable young girl wants to be stuffed away in an attic when Vienna awaits her?"

"When you put it that way it sounds like an obvious choice."

"I think a good night's thought will make it easy for you," he said. "I am confident you'll choose the proper course, whether it takes you East or has you stationary for a while."

She knew not how to reply, for in truth she had all but chosen her path. But to say it out loud, to hear it ringing about the rafters, was a display of greater certainty than she felt. The spoken word was too definite, too irrevocable.

"Hermione?"

She looked up, and read the mute inquiry in his face. Still she said nothing. He waited politely for an answer, but when her silence persisted he gave a swift smile and took up his cup of tea.

"Will you write me a recommendation?" she asked, abruptly.

"My opinion counts little in the real world, you know."

"But it does mean a great deal to me."

And without further question he drew out a pen and a sheet of parchment stationery.

She watched him closely as he penned the recommendation, wondering if his written confidence could magically compensate for what confidence she lacked. And then she wondered if it was an issue of self-assurance at all, or if she was making excuses. A nature like hers always respected fact, and could not tolerate error for long - not even where it meant facing a more unpleasant reality.

His words made her so uneasy because she had to acknowledge their truth. Her tutelage was complete and she did not know how to say goodbye. A simple fare-thee-well seemed so empty if this was to be their last meeting.

What she wanted to tell him was that she respected him in spite of his condition. Cared more to be valued by him than showered with accolades and roses by the rest.

Even in her head the sound of the half-formed speech was unrealistic, sentimental. _That_ she could never bring herself to say, even if it was the truth.

Lupin reached the end of the paper, signed his name with a flourish and, after a final review, closed the leaf in two folds. He smiled up at her as he handed her the parchment, saying in his light way that he hoped it did her some good. She thanked him for it and wished he could know how deeply she meant it. Some feelings were meant to live unvoiced; and it was hard enough now trying to muster the resolution to say the least emotional thing.

Then she told him she was leaving.


	4. Moonlight

**Disclaimer: **Alas! Remus and Hermione are not mine and very likely never will be.

* * *

The city streets seemed to sparkle in Vienna. When she was a little girl, Hermione loved to read fairytales and wonder whether trees could really be made from gold and silver, like the ones she discovered between the fragile gilded pages of the heavy books she treasured up. The parks in Vienna were visions of _verdure_ in spring and summer, but the trees glistened like emeralds and beryl, splendid and unfading. Perhaps it was but a projection of the euphoria of promise that she felt, but Vienna was to her a magical place, where the streets were paved with marble and cobbled with bricks of gold.

So she had felt when her smart black heel had first struck Austrian ground. She came to the city optimistic, with a formal agreement signed by one distinguished Director of Music, and with Lupin's recommendation folded in her pocket, like a talisman, a blessing. She had felt invulnerable then, and ready to make herself heard, here where all the walls and windows peered down on you with the supreme dignity of an aged civilization. This was a place where one could be proud of oneself.

Hermione began at once, playing around the city, cultivating relationships like a spider spinning its web. She worked with a set purpose, connecting people and resources until she felt as though she had fabricated a net expansive enough to support her. She could never stop striving until her web could catch her and keep her safe with all its patterned threads of communication.

The community was hospitable, the patrons generous. Warmly they outstretched their arms to envelop her into their familial sphere. It was a community that functioned on promise, driven by trust and respect. She was their darling; they nurtured her and wanted her work to come to fruition. They were kind and patient - and their tolerant smiles burdened her with a sense of heavy responsibility by day and dominated her thoughts in sleep.

But now her heels were worn thin, and the shine had all but gone from her shoeleather. Where was the promise of triumph and the vibrancy of youth and performance that had seem so near within reach at her coming? The thrill of ascendency that she had relished at the beginning eluded her now. Three years of gentle successes and gradual networking had taken their toll on her creative psyche.

Lately ideas were coming up depthless and insubstantial, when ideas occurred to her at all. The experience that she had anticipated, had chased, lent itself grudgingly to her repertoire. Was there any use in conjuring up a weightless symphony? What did it mean but unfulfilled expectation, and another commiserating smile? The recycled praise fell dully upon her ears, made her feel empty - especially when she sensed the increasing uncertainty with which it passed through the upcurled lips of her colleagues.

Her pocket felt empty, too. Lupin's recommendation, folded thin and tatty, was retired to the top drawer of her dresser, beneath newspaper clippings and missives from home. In her first season, she scarcely let it out of her sight, as though his quickly-conceived statement was both representation and safeguard of her talent. Soon enough she found out that it was worthless save as a personal reminder of her own worth. It had no power even to keep the best of her within her; not when there were benefactors to impress and virtuosos to upstage.

Amidst the competitive, expectant grind that summer of quiet progress and kind words seemed so very far away.

* * *

_"Marcus Beasley, returning to Vienna for the summer season, delighted the audience on the cello. His emotive style is reminiscent of the late James Potter, whom Beasley cites as a childhood inspiration. With masterful technique and expressiveness flowing openly from every fibre of his limber frame, Beasley seems destined to rise to the dazzling preeminence that is widely sought but rarely attained in his vocation. There was not a dry eye in the Konzerthaus as he performed a splendid and heartfelt rendition of an old Foster melody; it was truly the unexpected gem of the evening._

_"Also performing were John Thorpe, also of England, and compatriot Hermione Granger. Both gave proficient performances of original works, and then combined talents for a duet; a pleasant affair that made up with fingerwork what it lacked in heart."_

Hermione sighed and cast the newspaper aside. Acid nibs had barely stung, but this apathy smothered her like a storm cloud - a monochromic cumulonimbus, an anvil of oppression.

It was three summers since she had left her motherland, and Hermione sat in the park adjacent to her apartment on a breezeless afternoon, dazed and vaguely wondering where her inspiration had flown to.

She had been the headliner once; liberally bathed in spotlights, as audiences waited with baited breath for something great to ensue. And here she was now, a mere afterthought in a weekend editorial - a pleasant complement to someone else's showcase. They had expected too much of her - and left her feeling deflated as they found new upstarts in whom to invest their creative attention.

Beside her, beneath the _Evening Standard_, was a portfolio, open at the hinge, containing, amongst papers of legal consequence, a nicely arranged pile of loose music.

Neat black staves divided page upon page of the creamy white parchment into neat lanes of pitch and rythym. Boldly, here and there, they were splashed with notes and rests and swirling clefs; there were splotches of ink leaked in stormy notation, smudges and scratches of furious dissatisfaction. The ribboned stains and scribbles swam over the pages as erratically as the strains of thought and melody swam through her mind. There was something trapped inside her still, trying to take shape and flow forth. Scattered words in margins were pondered, recalling her best emotions, trying to channel and harness and to capture that evanescent formula that could do her heart's song justice.

Her head was throbbing and she was having trouble rationalizing. She had spent a lovely morning with the wife of a celebrated composer. This Patroness of the Arts was well known for her kindness and her supreme musical sensitivity. It was said that to hold audience with her was more propitious to a career than assembling a brilliant resume. With her sterling connections and golden ear, she had the influence to elevate an artist's reputation; indeed, she had heard all of Vienna's best before the public caught on.

This lady had invited Hermione to tea after Hermione had splendidly performed a composition of the lady's equally esteemed husband. Despite a gracious reception as generous in advice as in refreshments, Hermione felt, overall, that she would rather have forgone the entire conference. The stately Frau's advice only confirmed the stale and stinging idea that plagued Hermione's career.

There was no condescension in her tone, but the words were just the same.

"You have the potential to be something extraordinary, darling," she had said. "Potentially great."

Potential.

Hermione leaned forward into her hands and for the first time wished she didn't have to walk that arbor-lined avenue to get home.

* * *

It was the encroaching darkness that drove Hermione out of the park. The doorman waved her in from his well-lit vestibule and cautioned her not to stay out too late. Hermione let him steer her onto the lift and replied with commonplaces to his expressions of kind solicitude. She imagined that she was much like the car that she was standing in - a cage for ideas, dangled by inhibiting forces that were nevertheless so integral to the experiment.

She imagined herself tethered and lowered and hoisted by her reservations, her sensibilities and her inexperience. Would she rise to achieve her destination, her consummation, or would the cables snap and fall to a terrible flare?

She found her roommate, Millie, asleep in the lounge, still clutching a sampling of wedding lace and tulle to her chest. She looked almost wraithlike, bathed in the moonlight and reclining serenely; Hermione dared not violate her slumber by rousing her. She slipped past her into her own room. It was so unusually still with all the lights put out and Millie asleep.

She shuffled in the darkness to the window to draw back the thick satin drapes that shrouded her room from the city. Light flooded in and washed away the camouflage of obscurity. Her room was transformed with spiderlike shadows and the luminescent glow of the full moon.

Moonlight was a spectral element in Hermione's cognizance. Commonplace articles and familiar courses were changed under the late evening gleam, suggesting new aspects about things that seemed so one-dimensional at noon. It was a melancholy distinctness that suited her pensive mood, and so she sat in the pool of light and waited.

The mind is most susceptible to osmosis at moments where imagination, perception, and intuition work in tandem. Hermione was sure of a heightened clarity - at once emotional, mental, and physical - as she sank into a trance of semiawareness. The associations that she drew from her surroundings, though simple, seemed to reveal secrets and beam wisdom, and undid her afternoon bemusement. She always felt at this hour that magic could exist.

Across the street a man paced back and forth beneath a dim lamp post. Ten steps forward; turn. The seams of his coat were smooth, the fabric drawn in tight planes across his back. Ten steps more; pause. He vanished under the sharp, thin shadow of a building, but reappeared before another ten measures passed. The toe of his boot glimmered as his thin leather soles stepped rhythmically, regularly on.

He turned mid-step, grinding a leather heel into the concrete, disrupting the pattern. Something had broken within him; an almost imperceptible something, noticeable now only under the moon's scrutiny, that shifted his entire attitude. The smooth planes of his coat were suddenly wrinkled, furrowed, tense at the seams. A strong iron spine bent under pressure, curving away from a force stronger than habit. Her heart went out to this stranger who knew what the weight of the world was.

And then, unbidden, she remembered something. A lilting melody - lyrical and contemplative - stealing into her, holding her captive. A maestro both humble and wise, whose eyes were always veiling the secrets that his violin so eloquently proclaimed. And that feeling of floating, of flying whilst flightless, suspended in emotion, so completely absorbed in a song. And suddenly she understood.

She snatched a pencil from her bedside table and fumbled with the latch of her portfolio. Pen, paper - and the act. She was surprised at how easily the writing came. It all flowed together now - joggled back into place from the recesses of her learning. Every trick, every facility she had cultivated for so many years was now employed.

Music, after all, was a language. That universal mode of expressing the inexpressible, of making audible the streams of incommunicable feeling that bubble forth constantly from the depths of our hearts. Had he emphasized passion and interpretation because he understood this? He knew how to pour his jubilation and tribulation into song.

All stories must be told somehow. All people must find a means of communicating their lives. And every man deserves to be listened to.

But what if you are unable to tell for yourself? What if your voice is meaningless, scorned, despised? You play on.

He played in the hope that someone would listen - and so she must play that his story might be heard.

The world didn't want him - she wrote a sad and somber air, wrote of loneliness. The world disenfranchised him - she wrote a slow and sober dirge, wrote of poverty. The world teased of happiness then snatched it all away - she wrote with swells and declines and surges, wrote of heartache and longing and sorrow.

But he - he loved the world, and always wanted to make the best of it. There was beauty in even the forlornest places; this was the philosophy he courageously held to, and it never let him down. So must there be beauty underlying every motion of this piece - if she could find it within herself to write so.

With her heart unmasked under the great, glittering dome of Heaven, she wrote of a man like the moon and the stars; a small, steadfast light amidst the most aggressive darkness.

One of the low-hanging clouds that she had seen floating above the western horizon now drifted in front of the moon. Its shadow darkened her windowseat desk and jammed her concentration. Quickly, quickly, she thought; she couldn't divide her attention for long. On went the lights and in a split second her desk was swiped bare. She set herself up with a cup of chamomile and went to retrieve her work.

Her fingers shook slightly as she gathered up the three papers that she had baptized with ink. Thirty-seven measures, meticulously penned in spite of her brainstorming. It was beginning to take shape - an open-ended melody, with too many strains for convention, yet almost minimalist in composition. She hummed it to herself, quenching maudlin tears before they clouded her eyes. She was nervous to evaluate before it was complete. But it was definitely a start.

She chided herself for being silly as she tried to poise a quivering pen above a fresh bar.

It wasn't as though she had never written anything worthwhile before - and besides, there was no guarantee that this wasn't just a fit of midnight madness.

Concentration was key, and she couldn't afford to get ahead of herself. And so she took a sip of tea and she delved into the thirty-eighth bar.

She scribbled into the night with the happy buoyancy of a happy intuition. Reason could not stifle the good feeling she had about this piece.

This was her masterpiece.

* * *


	5. Heartsong

With a rush of excitement, and perhaps a throb of trepidation, Hermione rounded the corner and slipped into the crowds of the Grand Avenue. It was the same bustle, that ceaseless combination of discordant sounds and purposeful movement. The same soot-covered building with its four stories and its windows that gleamed in the midday sun. The same door with its large brass knob and tarnished knocker; how pleasant it was to feel its coolness against her hand again! As she made her way into the lobby she felt as though this was indeed her homecoming. So little about it was altered.

She had noticed at once the sign above the door, clanging in the violent gusts of the summer storm that was near upon them. It had taken on a sooty stain, like the great granite slabs it adorned, and but for the noise it made one might have overlooked it. Hermione smiled fondly at the scroll of the violin and couldn't help but be pleased at the camouflage. She had hoped that one day Mr. Lupin could achieve urban mundaneness. It would be enough if he could disappear against the scenery and enjoy the acceptance of being part of a routine. That his sign no longer gleamed like a beacon against the drabness seemed to her a pleasant omen.

She moved through the entrance hall without stopping to make an inquiry; glancing at the front desk, she noted that the receptionist was unfamiliar to her. Today was a day for revisiting and not for discovering. With a feeling of mounting anticipation, she summoned the elevator and was lifted to the fourth floor.

It seemed to take an age for the shiny scrolled grates to slide open. Here she was, facing the attic stairway, and it still smelled of wood stain and dust and mildew. She could almost hear Mr. Lupin tuning his violins upstairs.

Suddenly she felt insurmountably self-conscious. She breathed a moment in contemplation.

It was difficult to express her thought in words; it was too strong a thought to dismiss, but it sounded silly when put in colorless terms. For three years she had tried for a story of her own and had wound up using his. Wouldn't it seem rather foolish to him, who had been such a cogent advocate for individualism?

Removed from his sphere after only a brief stay, she had doubtlessly had a less forceful influence on him than he had on her. She could go so far as to believe that the impression must needs have been unrequited. He might have been a hero to her, but reverse roles and she was just another student. And how many dozens of budding musicians had made a paragon of him through the years?

But that prodding intuition was still murmuring encouragement. Because this piece was his as much as it was hers - he being the narrative and she but the narrator. She needed him to sanction it, to make it valid. Because even now, despite the praise and reinforcement of her critics, the taint of unconfidence wouldn't allow her to claim its merits until she had unveiled the portrait to the muse.

Her heart leapt to her throat as she turned the friendly doorknob, but it promptly sank when the bolt caught against the latch.

She found that the door was locked, and knew that he had gone.

The violin case she shouldered fell to the floor with a terrific crash. Then Hermione sunk down against the sticky oaken panels, brought her trembling hands to her face, and cried.

* * *

Many sleepless nights he had lain in bed, watching light shift and stretch as it caressed the walls and ceiling.

He had found housing in a parkside neighborhood, where there was no clamor to distract him after the raucous crowds deserted the area at nightfall. Lupin didn't know whether the unbelievable quiet of the lonely room suited him or not. Sometimes he desired nothing more than to sink into the silence, which had a peace of its own. Other times he would have given everything for any distraction that might be an escape from his thoughts.

No. Alone the cycle was inescapable. Sometimes happy and sometimes unhappy, thoughts and recollections, these were what were left to him at the end of a day, with no one to confide in. They were the necessary destination of every stream of consciousness.

Tonight, like the night before, the shadows flickered against the walls as the stormclouds sailed across the sky. The rustle of the trees sounded like the ocean, the rough gusts rolling in like waves. Wind tousling leaves and branches unbending, just like the water edging in over shells and pebbles and sand.

Fortune, he thought, was much like the tide. It came and went - some people built their castles in the damp sand, and their prospects were taken back by the tide whene'er it came. Some people made boats and anchors from insured woods and floated along - jostled about sometimes by the waves, but never lost at sea. Some had neither wood nor real estate - some drowned in high tide but some learned to swim, as he had.

He had always differed from his friends in that way, in their methods of weathering a tempest.

It had taken him years to understand the mind that could laugh against the winds of fortune and give chase to its vaunted prizes. Responsibility shook its finger at Temerity and cautioned from the sidelines whenever risks were too glaring. Perhaps there was a bit of pride involved; perhaps prudence was an identifying trait, something he alone could withhold or dispense, factoring into the friendship against their recklessness, bringing their group into balance. But who was then responsible when something went awry? The adventurers who could not alight without drowning, or the chary one whose withdrawal put him out of reach at the last?

Or was it just Fortune again?

They had always known that Fortune was a wanton master. Its frothing, chilly waters had deposited him, high and dry, on foreign shores. It would have been merciful of the ocean to swallow him up when it took the rest of them; but the instinct to swim is stronger than death; that grasping for life, for light, had always been his first impulse. If life stranded him he could at least try to make an island oasis of it.

Isolation, he learned, was never so desolate as in the open sea. Predators loom offshore and in the unfading charcoal haze of unseen traps and corners. Anxiety is constant, and human life scarcely seen. Nothing to do but work, scraping together the fundamentals for living. Nothing to live for but the sunrise, herald of a new day, and the sunset, visual serenade at its closing. Such passing, everyday things were nevertheless a type of richness. These were his happinesses, the satisfaction of seeing another unsquandered evening fade, and the untroubled conscientiousness with which he settled into sleep.

And there was always the dream of reunion. Friendly faces and ghostly presences, forced beneath the surface of his mind during the toilsome day, emerged as the night fell. In the twilight hour between sleeping and waking, waking and sleeping, he was conscious of their close proximity...

Alive to him for a spell, encouraging him to sail on.

* * *

A tentative voice broke the silence of the theatre. Words fell gently through the air upon the sedate assembly - as though offending their expectant ears as little as possible.

"_Visiting this country has been a wonderful experience for me, and as it's my last night here, I thought I'd leave you with something special and something new."_

Lupin shifted in his seat and roused his attention once more for this, the final performance of the night. Only the very poor or the very private frequented the dark second balcony. Far, far from the floodlights, seats could be bought up at a pretty discount. He felt fortunate to take his solitary place there, where the speakers buzzed sporadically and the performers on stage looked like puppets in a hand-theatre.

_"Germany has treated me so kindly and I really don't know how to express what I've taken from it except in music. So please listen and let it be my thanks to you."_

He thought of stealing down to the front of the balcony to get a better view of the stage but, lackadaisical, settled back into his chair. The unintrusive orchestra was emptying into the side wings, leaving a solo violinist to handle the encore. Hers looked a rather forsaken spot, enclosed in a blinding column of light that bleached out her features but did nothing to anonymise her. He remembered the tense laughter that preluded his group's outings, and pitied the youngster who had to confront the audience alone. The anticipation exhaled during her introduction hung thick around the glimmering chandelier.

_"On behalf of Frau Pfrommer and the organizing committee for this programme, I'd like to thank you all for coming tonight, and encourage you to continue your generous patronage of this fine establishment..."_

It was natural, he told himself, to feel slightly deflated when curtain call became imminent. Well, he had enjoyed his excursion - a rare interlude in the busy schedule he was compelled to keep with Winter close at his heels. He was tired - so tired; and when this early evening came, he betook himself to the heart of the city to find a remedy.

His medicine was found in the form of a twisting line outside a box office. He had wandered around the Arts District until the frosty air wore down on him and his long fingers were beginning to ache at the knuckles. The theatre's jolly chandeliers and warmly painted screens were irresistible. He pushed through the gathering crowd into the cozy hush of the lobby, then stood passive, heart beating fast, as the well-regulated mass flowed around him. The bite in the air unnerved him vaguely, like a sinister, barely-whispered secret, and his escape to the precipitate comfort of the theatre left him feeling rather overcome. It was so much a civilized environment, testimony to man's attainable upliftedness, and it was joy unspeakable to take in the walls and company that had been his prerogative during his performing years.

Now he wanted one more survey of the festive panorama, before his reluctant return to his loft and his bills and his students. The balcony held one advantage in its unmatched view of the theatre, and it impressed him deeply as lifted his gaze from the wide, well-kept stage to the august dome of the ceiling. These were the sights and sounds that were most homelike to him; like the modulating chatter that rose from a sea of freshly-coiffed heads; like the rehearsal strains of the orchestra, attuning chaos to order from its unseen enclosure. It was a cordial to him to drink in the happy anticipation of the people around him. It brought forth many spectral emotions, but was so comfortable that the dreaming seemed natural.

_"And nothing more, except - auf Wiedersehen, and I hope you like this. I did write the first two songs during my stay; the last piece might be familiar to some of you; I wrote it in Vienna last year."_

The word swept him up unawares, wafting into his fancies like a vesperal breeze. Vienna... he remembered the city well. His friends had lodged there once - it was Christmastime and the sparkling wreathes and evergreens gave the city a merry aspect. Red ribbons and holly boughs seemed to brighten every memory of the place, until that halcyon snatch of time stood out amongst all the others.

Their days together then were like the carols they sang, marked by almost inhuman mirth and hope and cheer. There was a baby in their midst, and by general consent a twelvemonth hiatus was adopted, that their friend might enjoy his new family. With sunny spirits did they sing out the old year, feeling, with the indomitable zest of youth, that things could only continue to brighten for them in the new one. Two were to stay in Vienna, one to go home to England for a stay, and he, Remus, to seek knowledge and experience roving with Gypsies. They were all at sail then - a matchless quartet - and could little imagine what squalls were stirring out at sea.

How quickly a life can capsize! One violent gust - a senseless automobile - and two are gone forever. One moment finds you dreaming up future glories, and in the next comes the dreaded summon that rouses you from your peace.

He never felt more bereaved, more utterly _lost_ inside than on that drive to the accident site - to some Alpine off-way in the dead of a starless night. If misfortune could ever have conquered him, it would have been then, as he looked upon the peaceful countenances of his incorrigible comrades. So brave and blithe in life, so solemn in slumber, and never again to waken with a smirk and a wile. And Lily, their flower - her fond green eyes looked on greener landscapes, and could not open again to meet and alleviate the world's worried glances. But what of innocence! Merciless fate distinguished neither father nor mother - the baby the sole survivor, yet the most wretched victim of them all.

They had been coming to surprise him, to bring him a bit of English festivity for Bonfire Night. It was always plotting with them; it seemed tragically apt that they'd go down in such a blaze. The musical world mourned the two smitten stars: names written in **bold** for a week; a spike in sales; a moment of silence at every venue; but then life moved on, as it invariably did, and they forgot to consider the other half of the foursome.

Peter, his only living friend, turned his back on him as soon as the funeral lament faded into the sorrowful sunset of a chilled November evening. He had his suspicions - unwarranted suspicions - and perhaps he knew that with the Quartet broken up, Lupin could only be a cloud on the horizon - of a solo career. The crowd dispersed and Peter went with it. Without so much as a goodbye, without knowing the grief and guilt that constricted Lupin's lungs more than the cold air did. He_ left_ Lupin alone at the gravesite - alone with the pastor beside the three newly-dug graves. . .

A slight turn in the melody hoisted him from the well of thoughts. He noticed only then that he had leaned forward into his hands, blocking out everything but his thoughts and - the music. The new strain was familiar, plaintive; it flowed, ran like a river alongside him, lending its living voice to his abstract ramble.

There were so many lonesome people, dependent on the passing kindnesses of strangers. So many people who languished where the world couldn't see them, who gave up on living for the want of a friend. A little more understanding could cure a world of evils. If harsh judgments were never made, then who would fear to own up to himself and who would wander the streets alone?

_What use have other people for intrigue and artifice?_, he thought. _Pretensions mask our true qualities and reinforce the greater facade. How do goodhearted people become accessory to the degenerate system, where one side is bolstered up by hammering another to inconsequence? There is heartbreak enough in the world without their crooked commerce_.

If loss and error were inevitabilities in life, then surely art and music were life's remedies. Whenever a person found a moment's respite in a song or a piece of art, the artist plying instrument became a messenger of truth and comfort. Here and now, the woman on stage had turned from an insignificant soloist to a doctor dealing medicine, transforming personal pain into something that could aid other people. Right now, it was enough for Lupin to feel that sympathy existed somewhere in the world; this musician, who bridled and expressed her sympathies on stage, for him, for a moment, combatted the force of antipathy that had oppressed him in society.

Lupin smiled, buoyed up by the lovely undercurrent of the wistful melody, and reflected; cheerful, heedless youth had gone, and the rainbow gold was lost when the first eclipse came. At first he had grappled with the desolation of his love and luck and his _purpose_ - but now he liked to think that his antonymous circumstances had built him a more complete perspective, had helped him happen upon an unlikely crusade. Over the years, he had come to find that pleasant remembrances _could_ be sown where ignorance hadn't yet taken root. If he was free from shame and acrimony, he represented his state in a new light to those whom he encountered. By hiding nothing but teaching well he could, person by person, elminate their misconceptions about him. It suited the mischievous spirit that _would_ persist in him throughout the years - it was his subversive bid for an enlightened future.

Was he sure he would witness this happy change in _his_ future? No, but he was willing to work and hope for work's reward. And he couldn't believe that it was so far out of reach, sitting in communion with a diverse assembly as the music echoed his thoughts through the air. Music was magic. Music was healing. It could touch upon the longing in the souls of men for a more perfect friendship with the world and its kin. This minstrel had conveyed in a matter of minutes what years of patient discourse would fail to convey. She had captured a fragment of the human condition and released it into the world to say what words were inadequate in describing. If music like this could bring these strangers into such deep accord, perhaps it could also dismantle the prejudices that words had built up.

The ushers were stirring behind the fabulous drapes, and the solo piece - the beautiful, evocative piece - was winnowing to a tender, emotional end. The heart-wrenching ponderous feel of it lifted in the final strains, gliding at last into ones that were lighter, easier, happier, like the hope that rises with the sun, after a long, long night of mourning.

The significance of it hit him with the suddenness of a wave; this uncanny anthem piece: was it really unlikely at all?

Something tense and taut collapsed within him - his doubt swept away by the grace of this very solacing melody. And the most remarkable thing was happening: around him, people's eyes had glistened over with tears. There was a collective hush, a quavering breath, and then the applause engulfed them. The ovation went up like a wave - from the orchestra seats spreading to the very last balcony row.

He blinked his swimming eyes and focused with all his might on the slender figure on stage. The bushy brown head inclined in a graceful curtsy, the self-conscious grip of her bow and the half-proud shying away from the applause - he didn't need to see her face to be sure he knew her.

Hermione Granger. It had been years since he bid her fare well and fair sailing. He knew that she was rising in prominence, noting with a teacher's remote pride the frequency with which her talent was hailed in music columns and periodicals. One composition - this composition, surely - had been quite the sensation in Europe: an overnight classic. He hadn't known; he had never heard it; how _possibly_ could he have expected _this_ from _anyone_?

He didn't remember much else about the evening, except that the ushers came to secure the balcony before he rose, and the security guard - argumentative and uncompromising - wouldn't let him see her. Miss Granger was occupied and unable to mingle - old teachers were no exception.

His fingers were numb when he fumbled with his keys at his threshold. Nothing penetrated the profound gratitude and the succoring prospect that was unlike any comfort he'd known for a decade. More tired then ever, but quite at peace inside, he carried out his humble rituals and drifted into a dreamless sleep. The spirits of time had not gone, never gone, but they let him sleep undisturbed during their vigil.

Memories, too, rested peacefully until rays of gold warmed the rose-tinted rim of the horizon.

* * *

After one final, affectionate dusting, Hermione smoothed the emerald cover over her violin and shut the case with a snap. Life as a traveling artist, though gratifying, was demanding, and she tried to make the most of what meditative moments it afforded her. She had been delighted to discover a cozy little nook backstage, where she could read an hour or two in peace before the long ride to Prague. She informed the on-hand security that no person was to disrupt her solitude, and then curled up with a book and a box of chocolates.

There was always a surplus of chocolates these days, with her assortment of admirers on tour and abroad. Some redheaded oboist from a woodwind family group had been booked alongside her in a scattering of German shows. Though on occasion she had to ensconce herself in spare dressing rooms to evade him, he made her laugh and saw to it that she was always outfitted with flowers and sweets, and on the whole she was more amused than annoyed by his attentions.

A series of short raps sounded from the other side of the door. Hermione carried on with her reading. The knocks came again, more demanding this time. Allowing herself a roll of the eyes, Hermione relinquished the novel and turned the latch. A bouquet of scarlet preceded her awkward champion into the room, and a stammering discourse followed.

Here was a pretty spray of roses; noisy to be sure, but it would brighten up her cramped little corner. Wouldn't she like a change of scenery? She ought to consider taking dinner with him? She was leaving the country tomorrow and he wanted to treat her. He had a note for her; he'd wrested it from the security bloke when he'd spied her name on it; the man averred that it was from a fellow on the street, but he had a sneaky, truthless look in his eye.

Hermione laughed and extended her arm to take it. An unadorned white card in a crisp white envelope, embossed at the borders but no more than four inches wide. Someone had penned Congratulations on the front in silver ink. Such a tasteful little aesthetic piece; it called to mind all manner of friendly things. Chivalry, gentility, and the noble hands of gentlemen. She unfolded the card; somehow, she wasn't surprised by what she found inside.

_Thank you._

_Remus Lupin_

The room seemed to compress around her. Colours and dimensions blurred - perhaps she had begun to cry. She felt as though a ghost had whisked by her, brushing up against her spirit. Was she shocked to finally encounter it, when it hovered about her constantly? No; but it was too suggestive of the supernatural to pass without costing her a bit of a shiver. Her soul felt very full.

The slow, pounding rhythm of her heart was leading her feet forward. Unthinking, she wove through the labarinthine backstage halls, with an urgency she couldn't understand, until she burst through the stage door, mindless of the indignant look she had from the warden. She looked up and down, but the back street was quite deserted. The street-light poured down on her shoulders, magnifying the vacantness and lending no warmth. She shuddered against the wind; her breath rose in little puffs above her head, and her ginger-haired shadow entreated her to step in from the cold.

She turned the card over in her hand. Disappointment turned to wonder as she pondered over the laconic message, scintillating lightly on the immaculate card.

She had never thought to see him again; not in this life, and not, certainly, as a guest in this nonnative land. Yet here their paths had intersected - time had brought them to the same place again - though she had walked along the wayside and he through the tunnels that harbored uncoveted treasures. Though it cost her a bitter pang to have missed him so narrowly, she could not but feel joyful. Frustration would not endure in the wake of this singular reunion - not when she held in her hands the words of validation she had so hoped to hear from him.

Hermione turned to her companion with a bracing sort of smile and a heart lighter than laughter. Smiles and tears were one to her then - joy or regret outpouring, there was no difference. Of the myriad tangled emotions overflowing within her, the only one discernible - fountained to the top, felt in and of the rest - was fulfillment.

Her little cup of happiness was full, and for once she felt at home in the vista stretching radiantly before her.

She knew that he would be down the road again, up against the world with all its prejudices, once more to the attics and basements begrudgingly given.

But it would be better for him now. For this was his song, and following his example she would play - even against the rolling thunder, even against the winds of Fortune and of Time.

THE END.

* * *

**Disclaimer**: Remus, Hermione, and the Marauders (and Ron!) are the creative property of Miss JK Rowling. Try as I might to make these characters my own, what I'm really seeking to do is capture a fragment of the life that Jo blesses them with so richly and effortlessly. 


End file.
